


all the space stretching out (blurring my defenses)

by pocketgalaxies



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Murder TW, blood tw, death tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketgalaxies/pseuds/pocketgalaxies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which remembrance is a war Carmilla never stopped fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the space stretching out (blurring my defenses)

**Author's Note:**

> {pirouette, made in heights}

When you still had a heart that beat and skin that flushed, your father loved you.

He used to let you sit in the seat right next to him at the dinner table, and when the guests talked about politics too much he would nudge you and make a funny face, and you would giggle and endure the boredom for just a while longer.

He used to lie to the old lady that taught you how to sew, used to say, "I have an urgent matter that requires Mircalla's presence," with his booming Count-Karnstein-voice you thought was the funniest most amazing thing in the world. And when the lady took the sewing needles from between your fingers he would wink with brown eyes like autumn leaves and he would take your hand, pull you out of the room. You'd eagerly follow him and he would take you to the library, teach you how to read and write, and at age eight you already knew those would be the best nights of your life.

When you couldn't sleep you would sneak out of your room and go to his office, where he would always be sitting in front of a crackling fireplace reading a book, and when he saw you he wouldn't ask any questions, just wave you over and make fun of the officials he met that day before tickling you until your stomach hurts from laughing and you are too tired to stay awake anymore.

"My lovely little Mircalla," he would whisper after you had a nightmare, sitting on your bed and brushing hair out of your face. "Papa's here."

You would fall asleep with his voice in your ears, and you always knew from a young age that he loved you too much.

::

He sees you hungrily gulping down a canteen of blood just minutes after Maman turns you, and the look on his face carves into you and the red staining your teeth feels like burning.

"Mircalla, you—"

Maman lunges for him and you don't have time to scream before his neck spills warm crimson.

You never feel like you know for sure what he was about to say, then, but when you try to think about it, your teeth lick like flames and you stop before you have to vomit.

::

You are yanking a girl's head back when she screams, "Papa!" in desperation and you realize you have forgotten the exact shade of your Papa's eyes, the way his voice rose and fell as he acted out fairytales in your room after bedtime. You've forgotten which way his hair fell after he went swimming, the rhythm of his hands threading through your hair, the fabric of his favorite clothes against your cheek as you laid in his lap listening to his breathing.

Your teeth sink into skin and the girl in your arms is limp and cold by the time you realize you are crying.

::

There are a few times after 1872 when you stop choking on blood and banging on a coffin lid long enough to imagine his fingers brushing away your bangs, hear his words in your ear, and your wrists don't feel so broken anymore when it feels like he is still there with you.

_"Papa's here."_

You wish you could believe it.

::

Laura takes you to meet her father when your ribs are almost healed and your limp is barely perceptible.

When he opens the door, Laura squeals and he takes her in his arms, hugging her tighter than you think you ever will, and then crosses his arms and looks you up and down with a challenging glare you shouldn't be intimidated by, before taking your suitcase and walking into the house.

Over dinner you can see the way his eyebrows relax and his shoulders settle when Laura talks, and you think of winks and fairytales and libraries and fireplaces and you have to excuse yourself as politely as you can before running out of the house.

You sprint deep into a nearby forest and you scream at the top of your lungs, kick and rip at trees, because you want to give up when you remember the wink but not the eyes, the fairytale but not the voice, the library but not the books, the fireplace but not the _warmth_.

::

You're sure there's some dirt smudged on your face when you get back, but Laura kisses your cheek all the same, and then her dad takes you into a bear hug that knocks the breath out of you. You're taken aback by the affection but you find yourself sinking into his embrace.

When you inhale, you think you can hear, _"My lovely little Mircalla,"_  and you think your Papa's hugs must have felt like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Completed: 2/14/15 23:18


End file.
